The Terrorist Next Door (2 page)

“Yes, I do.” Gold looked at his new partner. “A couple of years ago, I moved in with my father after my mother died. It was supposed to be temporary, but then he had a stroke, and now somebody has to stay with him. For the foreseeable future, that’s going to be me. My brother lives in Lake Forest. He’s a
hotshot mergers and acquisitions lawyer. He’s good about paying for caregivers, but he won’t come down to South Chicago unless it’s an emergency.”

“Why didn’t you and your parents move when everybody else did?”

“My dad taught science at Bowen. My mom was the librarian at the South Chicago library. They had this crazy idea that it was our neighborhood, and we weren’t going to leave.” Gold decided it was his turn to ask a few questions. “Why’d you transfer down to Area 2?”

“I live over by South Chicago Hospital. I wanted to work closer to home.”

Sure
. “The powers-that-be didn’t send you to babysit me after I got my partner killed?”

“Of course not.” Battle removed the toothpick from his mouth. “Stop beating yourself up, Dave. You and Paulie stopped a terrorist attack. You sure as hell didn’t get him killed.”

“Tell that to Katie and her kids.”

“I did—at Paulie’s funeral.”

Detective Paul Liszewski was the eldest of eight brothers who had grown up on the East Side, a few blocks from the Indiana border. He and Gold had played basketball against each other in high school, and they’d become fast friends as rookie cops at South Chicago station. They spent their free time shooting hoops at the South Chicago Y, where they were usually the only white guys in the gym. The cerebral, lightning fast Jewish guard from Bowen, and the tenacious, lumbering Catholic forward from St. Francis de Sales complemented each other on the court and watched each other’s backs on the street.

Battle tried again. “You did everything by the book. That’s why you’re getting a medal.”

“Yeah.” Gold closed his eyes and replayed the events in his mind for the thousandth time. It had started a month earlier when the bullet-riddled body of a crystal meth addict named Udell Jones was dumped next to the rusty chain link fence enclosing the long-abandoned U.S. Steel South Works site. Jones was a forgotten man from a forgotten corner of town whose death didn’t even rate a line in the
SouthtownStar
. To Gold and Paulie, he was still a South Chicago guy entitled to an investigation.

A snitch told them that Jones had mentioned a potential new source of crystal meth in a boarded-up two-flat at 84th and Mackinaw. They pulled a warrant and kicked in the door. Paulie never knew what hit him when a fire bomb detonated, killing him instantly. Despite suffering a Type 3 shoulder separation, Gold tackled a young man fleeing the building. He was later identified as Hassan Al-Shahid, a grad student at the U. of C. whose family owned an investment firm in Riyadh. The Saturday Night Special used to kill Jones was found in Al-Shahid’s pocket. The two-flat housed a sophisticated bomb factory. A search of Al-Shahid’s elegant condo on Hyde Park Boulevard uncovered plans to set off a bomb at the Art Institute. That’s how the War on Terror had found its way to the unlikeliest of locations: South Chicago.

The FBI and Homeland Security had trumpeted Al-Shahid’s arrest as a great victory. Gold had a decidedly cooler take after he discovered that the Bureau had been monitoring Al-Shahid for months—a detail they hadn’t mentioned to Chicago PD. Gold blamed the feds for Paulie’s death—a contention they disputed. They couldn’t deny one plain truth: if Gold and Paulie hadn’t pursued the investigation into the death of Udell Jones, Chicago might have borne the brunt of the worst terrorist attack on American soil since Nine-Eleven.

* * *

The young man watched the Crown Vic pull up in front of the Art Institute. A uniform escorted Gold up the steps, where he accepted handshakes from the chief and the imbecile from Homeland Security. Gold recoiled when the mayor clapped him on his left shoulder.

He clutched the cell phone more tightly.

* * *

Gold looked across the street at the high rises lining the west side of Michigan Avenue. The mayor was speaking, but Gold wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Katie Liszewski, who was now the single mother of boys aged nine, seven, five, and four. He had visited her almost every day since Paulie’s funeral. He felt a lump in his throat as he recalled the advice of his first partner as they’d driven the hard streets of South Chicago: a cop never cries.

Gold was watching a young mother walking hand-in-hand with her daughter across the street when he felt a nudge from Battle’s elbow. The small crowd was applauding. He adjusted his collar and walked toward the mayor, who smiled broadly and handed him a medal.

“The people of Chicago are very grateful for your heroism,” he said. “Because of your bravery, we are able to enjoy the cultural treasures of this great museum.”

“Thank you.” Gold stepped to the microphone. “This is dedicated to the memory of Detective Paul Liszewski.” He swallowed and added, “I’m glad it’s over.”

* * *

The young man ignored the pedestrians as he watched the ceremony across the street. As the applause reached a crescendo, he pressed Send.

* * *

Gold was still forcing a smile for the cameras when a Camry parked on Adams exploded. He recoiled as the ground shook and the vehicle was consumed by thick flames. The car lifted off the ground, then landed hard on its tires. A fireball roared down Adams, which filled with black smoke. The area was rocked again when the gas tank exploded. The impact blew out the windows of the high rise on the corner, showering the ducking pedestrians with shattered glass.

Gold’s ears rang and his shoulder throbbed. The heavy air smelled of burning gasoline as smoke billowed toward the Art Institute. Car alarms screamed and traffic stopped. Pedestrians stood transfixed for an instant, then they ran across Michigan Avenue toward Grant Park. The cops in front of the Art Institute moved across the street, first at a jog and then at a sprint.

* * *

The young man watched the pandemonium he had created from the smoke-filled alley behind the T-shirt shop. He made sure nobody was looking. Then he tossed his overcoat and pants into a Dumpster. He pressed Send once more. He turned off the cell phone, set it on the ground, smashed it, and dropped the remains into a sewer. Now sporting a Cubs T-shirt and khaki cutoffs, he joined the crowds jogging west on Adams toward Wabash.

* * *

Gold and Battle were standing in front of one of the bronze lions when Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He had a text message. His stomach tightened as he opened it.

It read, “It isn’t over.”

Chapter
2

“PEOPLE WILL DIE”

“We need to talk,” Gold said.

Chief Kevin Maloney lowered the megaphone he’d commandeered in a futile attempt to bring order to the intersection of Michigan and Adams. “Not now,” he snapped.

Gold and Battle had found Maloney at the center of a dozen uniforms who had surrounded the Camry. The two hundred and sixty pounds he carried on his six-foot-four-inch frame were considerably softer than during the days he’d played offensive tackle at St. Rita. His older brother still ran the tavern at 37th and Halsted that his grandfather—the longtime chairman of the Eleventh Ward Central Committee—had opened the day after the repeal of Prohibition. His traditional crew cut and perpetual half-grin gave him the appearance of a guy who bought the first round of Old Styles for his softball team at his old man’s saloon.

Gold tried again. “Chief—”

“Later.”

Gold’s lungs burned as he surveyed the scene. Sirens wailed. Police cars, ambulances, and fire engines struggled to navigate the gridlock. Pedestrians with soot-covered faces made their way to the east side of Michigan Avenue. An overmatched uniform tried to steer traffic to one side. An ambulance lost precious seconds as it inched along the crowded sidewalk.

Maloney raised the megaphone again, but Gold reached over and pushed it down. He spoke directly into the chief’s ear. “I just got a text from the asshole who set off the bomb. He
said it isn’t over. He blocked the return number, and our carrier couldn’t trace it. Our best tech guy in Area 2 thinks he used a throwaway cell phone with no GPS.”

“Why did he contact you?”

“It must have something to do with the Al-Shahid case.”

“Did you call the FBI?”

“Not yet.”
I wanted to give you a chance to step up.

The chief frowned. “We need to get them involved right away.”

This response came as no surprise to Gold. Maloney was a political animal who kept his superiors happy and deflected blame when things went wrong. If the feds identified the bomber, he would magnanimously take credit for putting the interests of the city ahead of his personal glory. If they couldn’t, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them under the #14 CTA bus idling in front of them.

“I’ll handle it,” Maloney said. “In the meantime, I need you and Battle to help us secure the scene and look for witnesses.”

“We’re going to take the lead in this investigation, right?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“We should talk about it now.”

They were interrupted by the reporter from WGN who had pushed her way to the front of the yellow tape. Carol Modjeski was a red-haired fireball whose father had run a chop shop on Milwaukee Avenue. “Mojo” had cut her teeth as a fact checker for Mike Royko, and later became the
Trib
’s lead crime reporter. Eventually, she took her act to WGN-TV, where her series on payoffs in the First Ward garnered a Peabody nomination. She shoved a microphone in front of the chief’s face. “Is this a terrorist act?”

Gold had been on the receiving end of her inquisitions on numerous occasions.
Don’t engage, Chief
.

“The situation is under control,” Maloney insisted. The
word “the” came out as “duh.” “We are personally taking charge of this investigation.” He pointed at the Art Institute. “We are setting up our command center across the street.”

Battle leaned over and whispered into Gold’s ear. “What are
we
doing?”

“
We
are telling the bad guys where to find us. There wasn’t anything in the playbook in Personnel about dealing with a terrorist attack.”

Maloney’s syntax became more tortured. “Additional emergency personnel is on the way. We ask the good citizens of Chicago to remain calm, cooperate with the police, and disperse in an orderly manner. We guarantee that we will find the people responsible for this senseless act.” He tried to disengage, but Mojo kept firing.

“Are there other bombs?” she shouted.

Maloney froze. He didn’t want to start a panic, but he was reluctant to lie, so he opted for obfuscation. “We’re taking every conceivable precaution.”

“Yes or no: is the public in danger?”

“We will use every available resource to protect the citizens of Chicago.”

“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

He shot a look at Gold. “Not to my knowledge.”

Mojo’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you talking to Detective Gold. Does he have any additional information?”

Maloney thought about it for an instant, then he motioned to Gold.

Battle spoke just loud enough so that only Gold could hear. “No comment.”

“No comment,” Gold repeated into the microphone.

Mojo was undeterred. “Were you targeted, Detective?”

He didn’t pull my name out of a hat.
“No comment.”

“Did someone threaten you?”

“No.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. The text wasn’t exactly a threat.

“Has anyone contacted you?”

“No comment.”

“Has the FBI been called?”

Maloney answered her. “Yes, along with Homeland Security.”

“Doesn’t that suggest this is a terrorist act?”

“It’s a criminal act.” The chief pushed out his jaw. “We aren’t going to let some nutcase set off bombs on Michigan Avenue. That’s it for now.” He pointed at Gold and Battle. “I need to talk to you—in private.”

* * *

In his Cubs T-shirt and khaki shorts, the young man blended in easily with a dozen employees and a few early-morning shoppers watching the chief’s impromptu news conference in the sports bar in the basement of the Macy’s in the old Marshall Field’s flagship store. Some people held cell phones to their ears. Most stood in grim silence. The air conditioning was a welcome respite from the blistering heat and the thick smoke outside. The young man’s demeanor remained impassive, but he was pleased to see the fear in Maloney’s eyes and the troubled look on Gold’s face.

Your stress is just beginning.

His stoic expression belied a sense of satisfaction bordering on elation. Maloney’s mealy-mouthed reassurances had been a bonus. He would begin the next phase immediately. The police would be on high alert, and the FBI would be called in. He would contact Carol Modjeski. It would enhance his stature if he communicated through the legendary “Mojo.” Above all, he confirmed that his instructors had been right:
meticulous planning is, indeed, the key to success
.

He pulled out another throwaway phone and discreetly
pressed Send. He turned it off and tossed it into a trash can as he headed into the subway.

That should get their attention
.

* * *

Gold was standing next to Maloney when his BlackBerry vibrated. He had received another text.

It read, “Free Hassan Al-Shahid or people will die.”

.